NOW I am possibly the least yobbiest person you could wish to meet, but there’s something about the game of football that brings out the worst in me.

On the beach I am a 12-stone weakling and even a Charles Atlas crash course couldn’t stop me from having sand kicked in my face.

But for some reason the red mist descends whenever I put on a pair of football boots, even at my ripe old age.

I’ve started playing regular games in Wycombe with a group of other dads and I’m not proud to tell you my nickname is ‘chopper’ after legendary Chelsea defender Ron Harris.

Sadly it doesn’t stop me from always being picked last whenever the sides are drawn up. This is a throwback to my schooldays when the PE teachers used to shunt me off into a corner because I was so useless.

Ironically, I’m actually probably better than I was then, so I can’t blame my lack of skills on advancing age. The only difference now is that I will go in for any tackle and hurl myself into any challenge – and that I’ve bought myself boxes of contact lenses so I can actually see on the pitch for the first time in my life.

This middle-age latent competitiveness has also begun to spill over to my trips to the touchline when I watch my son play in Bucks soccer tournaments.

I’m well aware of the FA’s Respect campaign for referees, though, and do try to respect it and support the official even when they get it wrong.

However, I just couldn’t help myself a week ago when the ref gave the harshest penalty I have ever witnessed against a small lad on our team – after the ball bounced up and hit his hand.

And before I knew it, I was foolishly calling out from the crowd at the top of my lungs: “Can our team have a penalty as well please ref?”

For a moment I thought I’d overstepped the mark and that I’d let down the game of football, the FA and common decency.

But everyone just laughed at the joke. Even the opposition fans.

I suppose I should count my blessings that I’m one of those people who will never make the grade as a yob.